One time and again

by BattyMadison

Summary:

Hannibal wakes up in his comfortable bed, well-rested and without a single wound on his body. The problem is that the night before he traveled to Bedelia's place after disemboweling Will and killing Abigail. How is it possible that he's reliving the day? He will have to find the perfect formula that allows him to change the course of the day, even if it means taking the life of the person who became his heart and his betrayer.
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A Mizumono fix-it where Hannibal is stuck in a time loop, and, of course, all his solutions are as dreadful as he is. Let's see if by reliving his mistakes so many times, he finally understands that love doesn't have to mean pain.

Chapter 1

Hannibal doesn't feel the raindrops hitting his skin, but he does feel the dampness seeping into his core. He has never experienced a sensation like this before: so empty, with a hollow at his center, a stabbing in his viscera. His mind waits in silence while his heart refuses to beat; the emotions that moments ago were driving him in his kitchen have turned into silence.

He doesn't feel anything, not even when he envisions Will Graham bleeding out after his betrayal. He feels nothing when he thinks about the life he's leaving behind. He feels nothing knowing that he's alone, as he has always been, rejected at his most intimate level by the only being capable of accepting him.

(The one who deceived him. The one who saw him but didn't want him. The one who didn't choose him).

The rest of his escape is carried out automatically: going to Bedelia's house and finding her there, an ice-cold figure; cleaning the blood; chatting in front of the terror-laden coldness in the delicate expressions of the woman.

The numbness that has accompanied him since he used the sharp blade never leaves him for a moment. Not even when he closes his eyes and forces his brain to focus on the vast future that lies at his feet. Only on that, on Florence and what awaits him.

Nothing of deep blue eyes and the texture of wet curls at his fingertips.

Nothing else.

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Hannibal wakes up without Bedelia's scent filling the air as he goes to sleep.

He wakes up in his bed, in Baltimore. Without the smell of blood he left in his house.

He wakes up, and Hannibal lets a few seconds pass until he's sure of what his senses are showing him, as impossible as it may seem, taking the tablet he usually leaves on his nightstand and seeing with his own eyes what seems to be happening.

It's the previous day.

How? What happened last night is not a fragment of his imagination.

However, when he gets out of bed without any pain in his body and visits his kitchen looking pristine, reality seems to have unfolded; empiricism demonstrating the obvious: it's the same day.

As if nothing had happened.

But he remembers so vividly. Will's betrayal, his false surrender, his false understanding, his lies. The need to make him pay, to push him to his level of suffering.

The destruction of Jack, of Abigail. Of course.

Having his dear Judas in his arms and opening him up, ready to make him feel a tiny fraction of his pain.

His trembling voice telling him that he did change him, so arrogant even as he bled on his floor.

Just thinking about it consumes him and sets his lips in a firm line, his thoughts filled with that uncontrolled rage that led him to wait in his house for Will's arrival.

How is this possible? He thinks again.

The manipulation of time has been an intriguing theme throughout his years, especially during his youth because of his desires to bring his sister back or at least repair the situation.

Could it be that something like this happened? But he has no knowledge of how. He doesn't understand why.

So Hannibal prepares for the day; his perfect memory providing him with the details of what he did yesterday, including that terrible moment of betrayal when he realized that Will only sought to destroy him.

The anger that thought brings is so intense.

It's a humiliation. For the first time, he let himself be seen, allowed himself to feel, and that was the payment he received: Will choosing to remain ignorant, denying himself and the gift he was given.

Hannibal feels that leaving Will in the kitchen was not enough, not even slitting Abigail's throat.

He should have crushed Will and turned him into his greatest masterpiece; a farewell to the Ripper before embarking on a new course of life. Only by removing him from this world can he resume his free and perfect existence.

That's right, Hannibal realizes, he needs to amputate Will Graham completely. He needs to exterminate the seed he planted in him; the detestable weakness, this inconceivable discomfort of being alone. He needs to eliminate him completely, get rid of his life. It's not enough to have left him hanging by a thread in one world; he needs to ensure that they will never share the same air again.

These are the thoughts that accompany Hannibal as he prepares to drive to Wolf Trap.

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At 8:40 in the morning, Will opens the door in his pajamas, as he has done so many times before. Already certain of the side he has always been on, Hannibal can sense the tension at the edge of his gaze, his strong jaw clenches as their eyes meet.

"I thought we were meeting for dinner tonight," Will says, his only words before to let him in, disregarding the predator following him. Hannibal pays attention to the fact that the dogs are not inside; he's sure they are playing in the yard. Just as he thought on the way here, he moves quickly.

Will doesn't expect it either, still walking toward his living room, muttering behind clenched teeth about the stupid state of his life.

That's how Hannibal gets closer and closer until he presses his chest against Will's back, one arm gripping his waist with all his strength and the other clutching his throat, pressing on the small bones until the skin breaks. Will, bewildered, tries to lean back, hit him with the back of his head, but his struggle is with an expert in this, and Will isn't the first man of his size and height that Hannibal has dispatched this way.

Desperate hands hit his kidneys, scratch his arms, pull his hair; bare feet try to break his legs, kick him to break free. Hannibal says nothing, maintaining his silence through all the seconds that stretch into time until he feels Will start to fade; the intensity of his movements decreasing until he becomes still.

Slowly, he releases the hand that squeezed his trachea and notices the blood between his nails, on his fingers; how Will's head falls against his clavicle in a parody of others situations he has imagined. That's when he makes sure and easily turns his head until he hears a small sound as his neck snaps.

He lets him fall this time, unlike what happened in his kitchen. He feels distant at that moment, analogous to the puppeteer Will compared him to so long ago, finally cutting the strings of his failed toy.

Standing, he looks at the body: the flush of asphyxiation slowly leaving his cheeks as the blood stops flowing in his veins; the awkward way his legs are crossed; some strands of light hair in his lax fingers, evidence of his futile attempt to survive.

He notices other things: those horrible sweatpants he sleeps in, revealing his pale ankles; the T-shirt with a sweat stain under his armpits; a small hole in the sleeve and at the neck. He also notices that his curls are scattered on the floor; his lips left slightly ajar, but the expression of anguish that usually accompanies him has finally left him, now at peace.

Will Graham has ceased to exist.

Something similar to nausea starts in his gut, coursing through his stomach.

He hears the dogs start barking loudly, scraping at the back door and trying to get into the house. With just one more look at what used to be Will Graham, he returns to his vehicle, in a state similar to autopilot.

However, the feeling of joy, of peace that he thought would be his reward for this adjustment in his actions, has not yet appeared. Satisfaction for the anger that envelops him when he thinks of the only perjury to which he has been subjected, and worse, by the one who mattered most to him.

It doesn't appear when he gets into the car and remembers Will sitting with him, his expression as surly as ever. It doesn't appear when he enters his home, passes through the kitchen, or goes upstairs to take a shower and clean himself.

Will is dead, by his hand, but by his own sins.

(He tried to give him absolution, told him he would forgive him, and that too was rejected. What guilt can he have?).

What if tomorrow is another day?

(What if he has to live in a world like this?).

He doesn't let that train of thought advance. Will played with fire, played knowing the alternatives, knowing well how the board worked.

Still, as he entertains these thoughts, his hands, always steady in any situation, tremble as he dries his hair, buttons his shirt. He tries to remember the feeling of Will's warm skin, at that moment when their bodies collided, so similar to the embrace in his kitchen.

Why did Will provoke him to do this? Why didn't Will change his mind after he had given him so much?

It's terrible, it's terrible to still feel this way. Numb. Only after Mischa did he suffer like this; later accustomed to a unnatural joy in enjoying life, his lack of fear of death, his superiority over others.

But he still feels destroyed, lost. He should have exalted the body, elevated it, but he didn't have time with those damn barking dogs.

(Nothing to do with nausea at being aware of his death, facing his lifeless body).

He goes down to his living room, where he sits, closing his eyes and thinking about his mental palace, about the reconfiguration he will have to do with his rooms. He needs to erase Will Graham, that horrible mistake that has transformed his life; even in death, Will doesn't leave him in peace.

Time fades away, and he has no sense of how long he has been at this task because he is still doing it when he hears the intrusion in his house, doors breaking open, just like the windows.

Of course. He must have escaped, such an amateur mistake.

Now it's impossible with the SWAT team and their ridiculous suits arriving where he's sitting, led, of course, by Jack Crawford.

"How's it going? I imagine dinner was moved up," he greets without getting up.

The man's face seems to have aged a decade, remaining unmoved without responding. Some of his men approach mechanically, and Hannibal allows them to do their work; the numbness that has taken over his body, accompanied by a fatigue he has never experienced before.

Maybe an adventure in prison is what he needs, he thinks absentmindedly, outside of his mind, pushing away the idea he had just the day before of not losing his freedom.

"Have you seen what I left for you in Wolf Trap?" he asks, rising to have the handcuffs put on, ignoring the other swines, his eyes fixed on Jack, who still hasn't answered.

The rest doesn't matter.

His incredible mind allows him to disappear, to ignore what's happening around him; the journey to the van, the ride to the headquarters; he only knows it's nighttime from the darkness of the sky. He lost all the hours of the day, immersed in trying to eliminate his traitor.

Will Graham is no longer here. He will never again cast a bitter look, a half-smile. A complete metaphor revealing his psychology.

And he will never be able to cook for him again. Nor show him cities, Florence. He will never be able to find out if his taste for violence could deepen.

He doesn't think about other things that will never be possible again, erased from his mental palace (the taste of his lips, the warmth of his excited skin, his expressions of pleasure rather than pain. His damn smile, full of newfound confidence).

He only knows that they have left him in a closed room, waiting for the detention procedures, just as Will and even Frederick Chilton had to undergo at some point.

With dissonance from that, his mind almost clear of thoughts beyond continuing to rebuild his palace, his rooms; he notices the clock and sees the minute hand advancing until it marks the beginning of a new day. Perhaps, a repetition.

And he would lie if he confessed that he doesn't desire anything more at that moment.

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Hannibal doesn't want to kill Will.

That's what he understands after waking up once again in his soft bed.

When he punishes him, he will take a different path, a path that doesn't involve erasing his existence. He doesn't want to feel that emptiness that drags him deeper and deeper, disrupting his psychological mastery, hindering his actions, and making him feel banal.

How terrible it has been to develop such a weakness at this stage, when he was once untouchable.

No, he can't kill him. He still feels the phantom sensation of taking away his breath, his mind still twists with fear at the thought of elevating him, of turning him into art: of becoming aware of his murder (how he escaped seeing his body, hearing his dogs, running away like an beast).

He carries out his chores because the day seems scripted, only thinking about the possibilities that this might be some pre-established event, and he, a relative subject to time. In some unfathomable way, he is able to deconstruct reality.

He tries to mimic his choices, thinking about that and about how to direct the fury that still consumes him (how could abandon him? He has never faced such a problem, these feelings).

That's how he encounters Will again in his kitchen, touched by the rain and trembling like an animal, his eyes wide, fixed on his figure, his mouth a hard grimace.

And he remembers Will's body broken by his hand. He remembers his betrayal.

That's why he doesn't approach him to gut him but calls Abigail instead. It's not difficult to hold her as his father did at the beginning of everything (those moments seem so distant now).

"A future opened up for us, Will," he says, thinking about his plans, now ruined. "The chrysalis of that path contained a gift for you."

Will continues to point the gun at him, but everything about him looks helpless, his shoulders drooping in the face of the scene. "Why?"

He asks as if he doesn't understand, as if it weren't easy to know what's happening, the intention he should have predicted.

Despite all that, Hannibal still needs him so much.

"Lower the weapon, Will. The broken path still holds, despite your actions."

And, like a frightened lamb, he lets it fall. Hannibal realizes that Will is still incapable of truly hurting him, of pulling the trigger.

He releases Abigail, who remains frozen, crying, collapsing on the floor.

So he walks towards him, takes his arm, and drags him out of the kitchen. Will doesn't resist, so unlike the man who pointed the gun at him three times in two kitchens, the man who swore vengeance. He doesn't even try to escape.

He takes him, quiet, like a puppet, not even when he throws his coat over Alana. He doesn't resist as Hannibal places him in the car, and he doesn't resist as Hannibal drives.

He drives towards the cliffside house, deciding to let Bedelia's fate be.

Hannibal is still angry, wounded, but he has him with him, and that's all that matters. He has Will with him and he won't stop to see what happens with each decision, only until he scrapes the inside of Will and cultivates his beast, whether he likes it or not. He's an indecisive creature that he'll have to tame.

"Why, Hannibal?" Will's voice saying his name like that causes him a pain that is not physical. Will doesn't look at him, his face turned toward the window. "Knowing you is the most terrible thing that has happened to me. Something inside me has rotted, and I don't have the strength to get rid of it. I don't have the strength to keep opposing it."

"Your decisions are your own. I gave you the opportunity to choose. What made you think there wouldn't be more?"

And Will still doesn't look at him, his tone dry and low, a sad laugh. "Because I never asked to be in your game. I just wanted you to listen to me, to be my friend. The rest was a horrible domino effect. But what does that matter? You have me here. What does my will matter?"

The silence continues, and despite everything, he feels empty, as if Will isn't really there where he has imagined him to be. He can observe him through the mirror, his gloomy gaze, his desolation.

And Hannibal still doesn't answer, he just looks at the watch on his wrist, the hand advancing and advancing until it simply marks 12:00.

Chapter 2

He wake up.

His bed still feels just as perfect, but even that doesn't dispel his bad mood when he remembers the events before.

Will would have put up resistance, but he would have ended up evolving as he has so far. He's a trunk that doesn't break, sprouting branches upon branches to keep on surviving. He's unpredictable but so adaptable, the only person capable of keeping up with him.

That wouldn't have been a bad future, better than the two previous ones. He would have had his company, albeit reluctantly.

However, he realizes it wouldn't have been enough. He doesn't want a follower, he doesn't want to mold someone's acceptance of him. And it's considering all of that that the unpleasant emptiness that oppresses him completely, stealing the symphony from his mind, continues to haunt him.

Why couldn't Will have chosen him alone? Why did he have to do it through Abigail?

Because that's it.

Will doesn't prefer him, doesn't choose their relationship here or in perhaps any other worlds; he gave him his trust, what he could give at least, and Will rejected it.

Now that he spared his life and chose to join him on the board, Will paid him back with this, with a resignation bathed in despair. And all of it just to save a young woman he barely had a connection with.

No.

That's why, in this new repetition, he drives to the house with only one mission in mind.

And it's not art he commits, it's simply taking a life when he slashes Abigail's throat; her huge eyes filled with terror, incomprehensible at the action. That vulnerability he trained in her, under his captivity, facilitating her death.

And the hours go on and on, and soon he's bathed in blood again with Will in front of him.

Choose me, he thinks. Without any additional elements, just who I am. Let me be your first choice.

And Will looks at him, with tears rolling down his face. "You were supposed to leave."

"I couldn't do that without you."

As it has happened before, the moment stretches, bending time. Will points the gun at him with trembling hands. "Why the hell, Hannibal, why the hell couldn't you leave?! I called you, damn it, I warned you."

"I gave you a gift you didn't want, Will. I showed you my inner self, and you still denied it even after witnessing it. One of us won't leave here."

Moisture renews on Will's face. "Only by knowing you did I realize how much I could hate myself."

"And your regret? Tell me, don't you want to know more?"

The gun drops with a simple sound. Will looks helpless, a weaker version of the previous ones, with so many emotions weighing down his features. "I am who I've always been, Hannibal, and only once could I have stopped you by my hand, the hand fate saved you from. Now I have no real choice, so I eliminate the alternative."

Hannibal walks toward him, reaching out his hand, eyes on the entrance. But Will doesn't approach, his restless form moving toward the wall, holding onto it until he sinks to the floor, never taking his eyes off Hannibal.

Oh.

He won't accompany him.

But he can't kill him either.

And Hannibal won't commit that act again, knowing how it feels to do it.

An eternal second is spent to capture his beloved face; his anguish and breakdown before simply continuing with his steps, head held high. Understanding and not understanding.

(For the first time, he thinks about that warning call. About the meaning behind it. He thinks without understanding why Will would give him a chance to escape when his whole game was to hunt him. He thinks about the desperation in his voice when he found him still in his house, maybe, perhaps, wanting to let him go).

For the rest of the journey to where Bedelia remains in this atmosphere. He feels this way until he lies down on the bed, unable to sleep as he waits for the ticking of the clock.

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Upon waking up, no longer surprised in his own bed, he decides to spend the day alone, go to the cliffside house, get rid of Abigail, and dedicate himself to thinking about what is happening.

Why is he stuck in this time loop?

And even better, why can't he break it?

He spends hours with equations, mathematics, and physics books, ignoring his mobile phone and missed calls. He spends the day even thinking about Mischa, about his dreams of changing the past and saving her.

He understands that something must have happened for him to be caught in this. Because he knows he is the only one aware of reliving the same day.

Above all, he understands that he needs Will Graham alive. Each repetition has shown him that, the growing emptiness inside him in Will's absence.

The day goes by like this until his wristwatch once again indicates 12:00 noon.

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When he opens his eyes, he thinks that today, in this repetition, he will make Will choose him.

It can't be that after so much time, he is not his first choice.

Although a part of him is understanding with each new opportunity the level of damage caused by his manipulations and lies, with his own kind of betrayal, that it may be the key to the rejection he receives; most of him firmly believes that he has revealed enough and has also given his own transformation to be a slave to Will's resentment.

Will should be grateful to have been freed from the cave, from the path that Hannibal opened for him.

Once again, in the house on the cliff, he doesn't bring Abigail with him, but he kills her. It is also clear at this point that he doesn't want to be chosen for any reason other than himself and that he doesn't want Will because of the girl.

He wants to be his first choice.

But even so, having him there in his kitchen, eyes trembling as always and hands steady on his gun, Will doesn't choose him.

"I'll take you with me," he asserts, bloodied after his fight with Jack, after killing Alana with such ease (so blindly, even to the end, believing his weapon was enough). He walks toward him, already firmly convinced that Will won't shoot him, even after seeing the body of the woman he once cherished so much. "You'll come with me to the ends of the earth, Will, until you understand your own transformation, until you're ready for your freedom."

"I don't want that," Will replies, releasing the revolver's safety. "I gave you the opportunity to escape, and even with that, you caused this bloodbath just to satisfy your damn ego."

He shakes his head. "I was the one who gave you the opportunity to be transparent with me, Will; the rest are your consequences."

The blue of that gaze he has dreamt of so often dims, a pained grimace on his lips. "You killed Abigail, Beverly, Alana, probably Jack. Did you destroy my entire life and expect me to thank you for it?"

The memory of his betrayal, his minimal gratitude, all adds up in the words he proclaims. "I created a world for you, Will, where the teacup was rebuilt, where you could see Abigail again, safe from all this and those who wanted to ruin her. But it was you who, at the end of the day, broke things by bending my hand."

Will's expression opens in shock, in a horror so real, and he renews a sob, much like how Hannibal once saw him in another kitchen, equally trembling. "Like Miriam Lass, you had her alive, you damn son of a bitch! What was she? A toy to make me dance to your tune?"

"We are monsters, you and I. Our destruction was written from the moment I saved you; her life would only continue if you played your part. But you didn't want to."

The beloved face breaks even more, tears wetting skin already dampened by the rain. He can see how those eyes darken as the knuckles turn white with the force of holding the gun. "Nothing stops you, Hannibal. I don't know what you want from me when you could have had it all once and you threw it away."

"I want you to choose me," he is sincere. "But I see that's not in your nature. Understand this, Will, I will leave here and take you with me, and then you will know just how great my ability to achieve what I set out to do is. You will ultimately understand that your participation must be by my side and alongside the courage to explore what the chrysalis released."

He doesn't expect it.

Of course not.

Suicide has always been the enemy.

And he thinks Will will shoot him today, that he will stop his escape as he takes more steps toward him, but his dear heart, unpredictable, is faster than that, and in seconds the gun's muzzle is against his temple, his gaze as lifeless as it was in his worst state of fugue. "You want me to choose you," he recapitulates, his chin trembling and tears falling, "when you've never chosen me."

"Didn't I give you a unique gift?" he murmurs, knowing that in the silence he is heard, calculating how to disarm him and render him unconscious to take him with him.

Will's features become, if possible, more expressionless except for the pained appearance of his lips. "No, Hannibal, everything you've done has been for you and by you. Don't delude yourself into thinking you wanted to give me something." His hand pushes the barrel harder against his head, making the area white from the pressure. "But don't worry, I will take away your favorite toy, Dr. Lecter. They're coming for you, and they'll hunt you down and lock you up, and you'll never get inside my mind again."

Hannibal has killed hundreds. Throughout an entire existence. And he has seen even more die.

He took Will's life himself, listening to his breath stop and being haunted by his absence. But this, the moment the trigger is pulled, the sound of the dull impact echoing through the kitchen, and a body collapsing; this is unknown.

Everything speeds up as he kneels beside him, his stomach tightening as he sees the vacant gaze, the blood pouring from his mouth, oozing from inside his ear, from the immense hole that forms among his beautiful curls.

He pushes him to the side and tries to cover the wound, holding fragments of skull and brain matter between his fingers; never has a sight like this seemed so repugnant, so sickening to him. His own breaths are interrupted by desperation, the memory of his previous death and his reaction to this one. In a distant, senseless way, he realizes that this must be shock.

And he doesn't feel time passing, not even when the police arrive and pull him away from there.

Everything becomes an infinite well of absence.

He wants to stay lying down and not respond to anything. A deep pain taking over who he is, who he has been, a restless and terrible hopelessness that robs everything of its meaning for decades.

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That's the feeling he wakes up with, unexpected in him.

Oh, if his self from years ago could see him now, destroyed by feelings, haunted by a broken heart. Sick with heartache.

The image of Will's head bathed in red accompanies him behind his eyelids; that remorseful face as he realizes that Hannibal's cruelty knows no bounds, as he understands what his fate would be to stay with him.

His response is so clear: he would prefer death to being with him.

It's painful because with each passing day, he only knows more and more how much he loves Will. How did Will manage to get so deep into his being? How did he penetrate so deeply into the vast ocean of nothingness that inhabits his body without him even knowing?

He doesn't want to kill Will. He doesn't want to push him against his will. He doesn't want to drive him to destruction.

He just wants Will to choose him.

He just wants Will to want him.

"I don't understand," he thinks almost childishly, unable to comprehend the range of emotions surging within his heart. He realizes that the anger that has pursued him since he learned of the betrayal has abandoned him; that justified and uncontrolled rage has been replaced by this unease.

This immense suffering of not being loved.

(He thinks of Franklyn and his pathetic nature and hates himself for even contemplating the comparison.)

But Will and his benevolent reactions, despite everything, still linger in his mind. Because even though Hannibal destroyed his life, he called to warn him and was unable to kill him.

Even his eyes crinkle with something so akin to affection every time he sees him, tainted at the same time with deep pain.

So why doesn't he go with him?

In this new cycle, he decides to leave Abigail at the house on the cliff for when he has Will in his kitchen, convincing him that she's alive and leading him to her. The problem is that he also waits too long, wasting hours feeling sorry for himself until Jack arrives.

Everything happens in the same way, even Will's arrival, soaked and holding his faithful revolver. He's about to speak, to start his speech while looking into those beloved eyes when he feels blows to his stomach: the burning sensation of bullets piercing him, an unfamiliar but similar sensation to a strong burn.

It's not the first one that knocks him down, but the second and third, realizing that somehow Alana must have learned some self-defense; she must have had bullets stashed in her damn car, and without Abigail eliminating her from the board, he lost the game.

He looks at his wounds with disbelief, falling slowly to the floor, diagnosing himself and knowing the fatality because his organs will fail at any moment as he bleeds out.

It's only then, when the sound of blood in his ears subsides, that he hears shouts of denial, a shadow blocking the light in his kitchen: Will's face contorted in anguish and desperation, clumsy hands trying to seal the wounds.

"You'll go to jail, you'll go to jail," he is murmuring, his palms passing from one hole to another as if that could keep the blood inside his body.

"Will, Will, stay away from him, he was going to kill you," he notices with some effort that Alana is trying to approach, but Will doesn't respond to her. Hannibal has never felt so much the center of his attention.

If only it weren't because he's dying.

"My dear Will," he sighs, trying to lift his hand and stroke those wet cheeks, but his whole body feels slow and languid.

"Hannibal, you have to listen to me. For God's sake, I told you to leave," his words come out in a dissonant thread to the frantic look in his eyes, his hands abandoning the futile task of saving him and taking his face. His fingers are cold and wet; he can even feel the calluses on the tips, but they seem to him to be the most incredible thing he has ever touched.

Because it's the first time Will has done it.

"You can't die like this; I need you so much, please," he's begging, his voice becoming distant. Always so far away, his Will Graham, always far from him and far from his love. He tries to answer him, to tell him that, to tell him that he loves him, to ask him not to be the one to leave him.

Although he just closes his eyes, thinking of tomorrow.

Notes:

;__; more angst! But, don't worry!

PS: sorry for any errors 🙏

Chapter 3

And the days pass by, one after another. A week of repetitions turns into a month, into two. Sometimes everything ends in an identical manner, and at other times, the day becomes more violent. He despises those when he doesn't look for Will, when he doesn't see him.

Something that seems like a monolith: Will never kills him. He always ends up incapable of destroying his existence, despite his actions.

(Yes, he did shoot him once to save Abigail, acting faster when Hannibal revealed her location earlier, at his house, intending to kill her there and see what he would do.

Yes, he shot him on another occasion, after being stabbed, but in the calf to prevent his escape.

And in that cycle he can't forget, after leaving Alana's body nearby, assuring her that he would take her until he understood their connection, Will pointed the gun at his own head, and it's perhaps the most heart-wrenching version so far).

Hannibal hasn't killed him either.

Yes, he's killed everyone else. Once, he even surrendered to Jack Crawford himself.

However, at this point, he feels tired and frustrated, like one of his simplest puppets.

Because with each repetition, a common theme is emphasized: the idea of needing Will with him but wanting him with his consent, by his own choice.

The idea that Will shouldn't look at him shattered, with disappointment, with hopelessness. He wants him to look at him accepting, with trust. The idea of not losing him.

The seed of a conclusion: maybe the paths he's chosen haven't been the right ones, that perhaps, and this is the worst part, he lost him before this new game began.

Because here is the great epiphany after understanding so many things about Will. After removing his own blindfold and observing the devotion given. And it's tiring to see love in those deep blue eyes; in his tearful breath, in his refusal to shoot, in his curt tone warning him to flee, always; yet never choosing him to be with.

It's terrible to contemplate that it's most likely he who made the mistake.

(The possibility that he closed the doors by rejecting a gift he didn't notice, that he ignored with the arrogance he has lived with all his life. That by thinking and thinking about the present, he let months and months pass where he could have built bridges, where he could have left the marks to deliver the security of his own affection).

In this new repetition, he decides to do everything the same and see if perhaps imitation is the key. That's how he arrives at that moment that has become infinite in his kitchen, with Will pale and wet, looking at him with that inquisitive gaze, lips forming an echo of helplessness.

The words sound like a replay as he utters them with such clarity.

But seeing Will there again, as beautiful as the first time and almost trembling under the raindrops, makes the blade in his hand shiver as it deviates from the script, and he says to him: "I had to see you one more time, Will. Despite everything, I can't leave you behind. I don't know how you've managed to devour the coldness that surrounds my heart. How could I leave without wanting to etch you into my memory again?"

And even as his gaze is so focused on that beloved face, he doesn't understand in time the dilation of Will's pupils caused by his words, the slight contortion in his gentle features. And just as he did the first time, he takes him into his arms and holds his back, caressing his hair; unable to tear his eyes away from his features, blinking only to avoid missing them, and with a simple movement of his hand, sealing his fate.

Could Will not be unpredictable? He has tried to react differently in each cycle, and here and now, the change in his behavior has never been more painful. Because this time, Will doesn't let himself be disemboweled, but he doesn't attack either. It all happens so quickly: how Hannibal pierces him with the blade while Will embraces him to kiss his mouth, burying the blade without conscious awareness.

It seems as though those seconds pass by from a distance, just as it happened the only time he took his life. Now, he freezes in that moment, amid the sensation of those beloved lips, so full; his breath, the taste of his skin, the softness of his wet curls; but also the moan he emits against his own mouth from the blade's penetration; the warm liquid escaping between their bodies, and how heavy it becomes as it falls against him.

The situation regains intensity when the seconds leave their paralysis, and Hannibal kneels to hold Will and release the blade on the floor, pressing the wound, trying to contain it as he lowers him carefully.

I don't want this anymore, he thinks, with something he recognizes as desperation. I don't want this ending, he repeats, hearing Abigail's footsteps beside him, kneeling to try to help him.

And there's Will, his mouth reddened and spitting blood, eyes that have always looked melancholic standing out against the pallor of his skin. "I changed you," his words are so simple, yet so terrible. His cough becomes painful, and Hannibal knows he can't save him when his skillful mind is unable to diagnose the extent of the damage. He recognizes that the cut is deep, that this time it went deeper than it should have when Will embraced him.

"No," he murmurs without stopping, affirming with bloodied hands the jaw he loves so much, the cartilage of his ear, his hair. He almost throws himself on him when he feels him stop breathing, everything bathed in blood. The emptiness creeps from inside him to his extremities, and he knows that he doesn't want this.

And Will doesn't respond to his voice. And his gaze remains open but lifeless, so dark when under his kitchen it has always looked green.

No, is the only thing that crosses his mind as he presses against that beloved body, ignoring Abigail, staying there. Why can't he fix this? Fear grips his viscera at the possibility that this might be the last cycle; that tomorrow he will wake up to a new day where the world is gray and where Will Graham is not there to look at him with his furrowed brow, not there to give him a half-hearted smile. Where he can't try to make him happy.

(And it's worse than when he saw him blow his brains out because now it was him again. It was his hand. Once again, he destroyed what, he understands, he should have protected).

Why has it been like this?

He could have avoided it all, prevented his own tragedy.

But he understands that he failed in the first instance, that he valued a senseless game more than the possibility of a real connection. And then, when he believed that he could bring him back, after getting him out of prison, that Will would fall into his trap without anything else, he didn't give him time but tests and more tests, seeking to prove his resilience and the darkness of his heart, to know what kind of beast hid behind his humanity.

He should have taken the thread of friendship he offered with steady hands. He remembers his voice, so shattered, confessing to him in one cycle, sitting in his car, that he had only wanted to be his friend.

And here come other memories, those that he has kept sealed since he was visited to resume therapy, with his posture so changed: Will in his office, smiling shyly at a joke, bewildered by feeling understood; Will in his house, shrugging like a child as he offered him breakfast; his warm gaze after driving for hours just to deliver a damn bottle of wine.

And he remembers his vulnerability when he dropped the blanket, after vomiting the ear he used to violate his throat. And his unwavering trust in hiding from the police among his books, thinking that he could help him. Still believing that Hannibal was on his side.

And that was my gift, he thinks, touching the beloved cheeks with frenzied fingers, so cold, those lips turning white, ignoring the cries of the teenager beside him.

When he hears the sirens, he doesn't bother to move, the numbness spreading to the rest of his muscles. He only does so when they take him in the custody of three agents, rising with dignity, never taking his eyes off Will being carried on a stretcher, trying to delay his steps so he doesn't lose sight of him until the black plastic obscures his view.

And it's that image that haunts him as they handcuff him and seat him in a van. The stares from the police officers don't affect him because in his vision, he can only observe cloudy, lifeless blue eyes.

And it's the silence of his childhood, that muteness, that accompanies him through the hallways, staying with him step by step, not allowing him to discern what's happening, making him incapable of his mind functioning towards the future because he's still trapped in that small moment in his kitchen.

He only comes back to himself as he passes once more into a minimalist room before they make him go through the procedure review. And that's when he sees the clock almost striking midnight, and when he closes his eyes for the first time in so many cycles, he only wishes and pleads, please.

-

-

-

When he hears the footsteps in the gallery, he recognizes them immediately. It's the shadow that has been accompanying him since leaving Baltimore. And there, having Will Graham with La Primavera as a backdrop is the most spectacular scene he has ever witnessed, filling him with infinite love.

Of course, it cannot last; Will's forgiveness is tied to punishment, to the edge of his knife. Faced with that, how else could he react?

All that's left is to excise him from his heart.

To remove him from his insides so he can finally empty the hallways and rooms of his mental palace. He needs to amputate these feelings, this terrible compassion.

He must consume him.

So he treats him with care; the wound on his shoulder, the ones marking his face. He cleans him with the same delicacy with which he dresses him. With which he ties him to the chair, so drugged, his eyelids drooping and covering those precious blue eyes.

(Even in that moment, serving him that bland soup, Will is still capable of throwing one of his acidic comments, making him smile).

And when Jack arrives and has him seated at the table, an imitation of the dinner that never was, he takes a deep breath to continue with his plan. To, finally, have peace once more.

It's interesting that when he lifts the saw and activates it, when he begins to penetrate skin and bone, drowning in the strong smell of blood and the crunching sound; his mind is distant as if it is participating in an abstract way in the actions his body is taking. He hears Jack's agonizing scream, Will's confused moans, but none of that stops him.

It's not the first time he has opened a skull in this manner, although it is the first time he plans to eat what it hides.

It's when the saw finishes burying itself and comes out on the other side, cutting through everything necessary, that Hannibal feels the first tremors in his hands. He releases the tool onto the table and with trembling fingers touches the curls he adores so much, moistened by blood, to carefully lift the top of the head.

An intense and unpleasant nausea overtakes him, one he has never experienced before. It squeezes his entrails, almost causing him to drop the piece of skull he has in his hands onto the table. With his feverish fury-free eyes, he can only see Will's drowsy blinking, and the grotesque image of his open skull, his exposed brain, provokes spasms in his stomach.

He feels stunned, Jack's deep voice continues to shout at him, insulting him, driven mad by witnessing his actions. He has to shut him up, unable to bear the noise along with the disgust that overwhelms him to the point where he takes the saw and buries it in his throat, severing his vocal cords in one go, his veins. He knows he kills the agent remotely, not wasting a second to look at him, worried that his hands will become steady again.

But he can't stop his gaze on Will, he can't with the image he has created. No, he needs to sew his head, but he knows he doesn't have the necessary tools to perform a lobotomy without consequences.

What did he do? He brings his trembling fingers to his face, to his mouth, trying to hold back the gag reflex.

The worst part is that he hears him babbling, confused and fearful, even more so as he moves away from his sight to go to his tools, his anxious tone calling for his name.

What the hell did he do?

He can't eat him. He should have known. He doesn't want to get rid of him. He was just so hurt, so furious. He doesn't want to kill him.

God, his hands don't stop trembling, and Will's voice penetrates his thoughts, the pain in pronouncing his name even after subjecting him to this unthinkable torture.

He can't find what he needs, of course he can't, he never thought he would go this far. His stupidity only allows him to pick up from the table what he took from Will to place it back over that horrible sight, covering it. The always perceptive gaze remains unfocused, and blood has started to run from his nose and mouth.

"Will," he sobs, releasing the restraints that hold his arms. He tries to place a hand on the moistened cheek, noticing the tears that don't stop falling from those beloved eyes. "Will."

His vocabulary has been reduced like this, diminished by his actions.

However, what seems to be a nightmare turns into a hell when the door is slammed open. Those damn men from Mason enter without hesitation, pushing everything in their path, and the resistance he puts up is futile against the sedatives they inject him with.

The last thing he sees is Will's chair overturning with their movements, thus revealing the grotesque vision of how his head ended up; the top fragmenting into pieces with the impact and its contents, the beautiful mind and thoughts of Will Graham, disassembling on the floor.

-

-

-

What follows happens quickly. Or maybe it doesn't. Hannibal stopped paying attention to the rest of the world the moment he lost the only thing that mattered.

Escaping and killing is an obvious response, forgetting Alana's rhetoric, who believes she has the right to judge his kind of love, ignorant of the fate of Will and Jack in Italy ("Is this how you call it? A psychiatrist like you should recognize that what you feel is an unhealthy and abusive obsession," she assured him with superiority on her bitter face).

In the strange months that follow, filled with memories and actions, he realizes that it's impossible to get over Will, impossible to surpass how he killed him and the vision of what he did. Impossible to get over his company, his affection, his conversations. His complete understanding.

He can't draw his reflection, his unpredictable nature, the color of his iris, the asymmetrical angle of his smiling lips. He can't copy his dialogues, nor the poetry of his sentences, let alone the dryness of his humor.

He can't replicate his scent or his closeness, the warmth of his companionship.

He thinks, he should be here with me, hunting me, finding me, while he hides in his old castle, fleeing from new memories to take refuge in the torture of his past.

And so he reviews his notebook with the equations he wrote in Italy, initiated in his youth in an attempt to save Mischa. And time passes: he hunts without grand artistry, only for survival, repairing the ancient infrastructure enough to live.

He spends days and nights in crumbling rooms, among fireflies and stone. There he sees Will, victorious, a terrible smile on his beautiful face, calling him a fool.

There he sees Will, whiskey in his hands and dog fur on his vest, telling him to give up.

And there's Will, lying on his bed, a blush on his cheeks and dilated pupils, talking to him about all they could have had. It's Will, sitting by his side, eyes closed as the silence of mutual understanding accompanies them.

It's that in the end, the terrible loss; of potential, of possibilities, of happiness and excitement.

Of love.

Hannibal wants just one more moment with him to say, come here, I want to learn how to love you. He wants to confess, you've changed me. He wants to sob, stay with me.

He writes and writes, reads with unknown desperation about physics and metaphysics. He doesn't remember ever using his brain so much, now imprisoned by this need, obsessed with those ifs, with the ghost of Will Graham that won't leave him in peace.

He writes notes and notes and notes.

And that's how he succeeds. The magic equation.

The reconversion of a day, just 24 hours to change things. So many events.

Except there, in the crux of it all, it's a blank slate of that awful day.

Notes:

Will has died many times in this fic, he's like Kenny from South Park hahaha.

The sci-fi in this is rubbish, but useful! 😗

Chapter 4

In this new cycle, Hannibal wakes up, prepares, and travels to Wolf Trap.

In what is a desolate present, after so many repetitions, he can be honest with himself and admit it: he feels numb and has an urgent need to end what is happening.

It's not a feeling he's used to. Living decades of pleasure with control over every detail in his life and others', with his charms and peculiarities without commitment, with the established routine of his power, has not prepared him for this bitterness.

And it's something he felt in that horrible moment when Will's betrayal became evident. Only now it's a thousand times worse because he doesn't know how to resolve it, how to ensure they both survive and, at the same time, that Will stays with him of his own free will.

He doesn't care that it's 5:45 in the morning. Or that Will Graham takes 15 minutes to answer the door, only doing so after he calls his cell phone.

Will looks disheveled and grumpy, pillow marks on his cheek. "If you've come to repeat the details of dinner, you can go back to your little palace. I had just managed to fall asleep."

Despite his attitude, Will leads him into the living room meanwhile he go to the kitchen and prepares the green tea he gave him some time ago.

Hannibal sits down and, taking a leisurely breath, decides to be transparent. "You might think that what I'm about to say is just another one of my subterfuges, Will, but it's the honest truth. I know what will happen in the next few hours. I've been repeating this day for 82 cycles."

Will doesn't react to the revelation, and silence stretches until he gets up calmly at the sound of boiling water, serving their infusions. After more silence and handing over both drinks, he sits down, but when he notices something on Hannibal's face, he says, "Isn't this a metaphor?"

"No."

Will blinks a few times, his brow furrowing slightly. "Are you telling me you believe you're in a time loop?"

"I'm living the same 24 hours," he confirms.

He watches Will scratch his jaw after taking a sip of his tea. "It could have been a metaphor; after all, repeating a day like this, I myself couldn't sleep thinking about what will happen."

"You're working with Jack to hunt me."

A cough. Will sets his tea down on the table but doesn't move any further. His eyes look awake, predatory. "Is that what you've really come to tell me?"

Hannibal shakes his head, not wanting to waste time in an argument he knows is futile. "Killing me isn't your goal, and even on this precipice, you have doubts about whom you will betray. No, Will, I've come because you are my constant in life, only your actions affect me so deeply."

Will smiles without humor. "You can forgive me if I don't believe that my injury to you is received with just those words. I would expect an injury of equal value."

"I've seen too many times how my reactions end, consequences I'm glad not to wake up and face. Coming to see you and confess this is a relief."

Will's lips quirk in questioning, as does his forehead. "You're living Groundhog Day?"

What does an American tradition about the changing of the seasons have to do with this? Will senses his confusion and rolls his eyes. "The Bill Murray movie?"

That cursed boy, bringing his awful pop culture into what has been a Dante's Inferno.

His damned Will Graham, how not to love him.

"I'm afraid so," he answers, unable to keep the corners of his lips from lifting, missing these conversations with him.

"What the hell, Hannibal, for God's sake. I thought hallucinating you as a damn monster couldn't get any worse."

Despite his skeptical complaints, he listens without revulsion to what he recounts: the times he has killed him. But he gets up angrily and punches him in the cheek when he confesses about Abigail, locking himself in the bathroom and only coming out after a few minutes, his gaze red and furious but still paying attention.

They spend the early morning like this, connecting the dots, changes and events, causes and consequences.

"You told me that sometimes you liked to see things break and think about how to fix them."

It's true. "After losing my sister, I spent many years musing about time and our role in that circle, between opportunities and formulas."

Will watches him with interest. "If there's anyone who could even mess with time, it's you, Dr. Lecter. Although my understanding of the science behind it is much more limited, is become clear that something you did put you in this situation, seeing as you're the only one who notices the changes."

"I have the same impression that I created this game, but I've exhausted my imagination on what to do differently. I only understand that my goal lies in you. I've killed you and taken you with me, forced you to change your mind so you'll follow me to hell and abandoned you there. Do you think this is my damnation?"

Will's eyes remain serious until they crinkle at the edges, and his lips form a smile as if he's found humor in the darkest of places. "You're so melodramatic, Hannibal. Somehow in my attempt to deceive you, I found myself wanting your company again. We won't stay for dinner, we won't kill Jack, and we won't take Abigail. We've done enough damage together. This life we've forged will be a fresh start, an absolution, and a rebirth."

Hannibal nods, satisfied with the terms, turning his hand to squeeze Will's, touching those calloused fingers. "It will be as you decide, Will."

And the beautiful smile he receives is enough of an answer to know that this will be different.

-

-

-

The rest of the day goes like this: Will packs his things and writes a note to Alana, saying goodbye for almost an hour to his dogs, unable to leave Winston and Buster behind ("Buster can behave when he needs to, and he has his brother for that"); they head to Baltimore, and Hannibal takes only what he needs, accustomed to escaping after so many repetitions.

In the car, it's just about lunchtime when they're ready. "I know you would have liked a farewell meal," Will comments, not without a shrug, "but the sooner we do everything, the sooner we can breathe calmly."

"Before starting a life on the run," he responds as he drives towards the house where he keeps Abigail.

"Not exactly."

He looks at him from the corner of his eye, noticing that he appears satisfied with himself. "Do you mean I can relive the same day?"

Will crosses his fingers in his lap, turning his face towards his dogs sleeping in the back seat. "No, I have complete faith that this will be your last repetition. I mean that our escape, if played well, can be the dramatic story of an affair between a patient and his psychiatrist, a very mishandled investigation, and a hint of infidelity."

Oh, with that description, he can easily guess what's being plotted. "Jack has no evidence against me, and there is no evidence in my house or office; we've taken care of that."

Will nods. "Absolutely nothing. In fact, we were being cornered by the FBI, without permission to take action against you. And I'm just coming out of a tremendous traumatic episode, complete negligence from the justice system and my own institution, plus an autoimmune disease that could have been treated earlier if I hadn't been under so much work pressure. Well, Alana can safely assume that our relationship was closer than it should have been."

"We were in love, with the relentless FBI harassment, and the sordid nature of our relationship: a total breakdown of my medical practice when I fell in love with a former patient who accused me of murder and even tried to kill me."

"There will be a scandal, but not one where your name rhymes with your crime, precisely."

As mischievous and manipulative as he's always known.

-

-

-

Hannibal notices the reunion of Will with Abigail, and for the first time, he acknowledges it for its own significance, not just thinking about how it will affect him. Despite the vague interest he might have in the teenager, his emotions remain muted, awakening only for Will.

Part of him believes they could be a family, but the larger part prefers to continue on the path that has been laid out for him, understanding that Abigail Hobbs is a fragment of the worst of their relationship. That he can't continue manipulating him through the plans he has with the girl, as it will only bring a parody of what he will now have to accept with his own change.

Will embraces her so gently, and Abigail clings to him like a child, fearful and traumatized, after so many months without much human contact. He ignores the angry, furious look he gives him, already sure that their mutual dependence won't be weakened by this.

Abigail looks confused as they explain to her, "It's your decision what you can do now, if you want to run away somewhere," Will says, all of them sitting in the living room.

"Jack Crawford still suspects me," she murmurs, her eyes on the floor.

Hannibal allows himself an enigmatic smile. "The world is a vast place, and no one thinks you're still alive, Abigail. You can easily decide to start over somewhere else. Money won't be a problem." And what he says next is said with utmost seriousness. "But you must understand that what has happened, our involvement, cannot be revealed. My agenda is not linear, and your actions can have serious consequences."

He watches her swallow, her lips pressed together. "I know, I understand. What I did," she scratches her eyelid, her chin trembling, "I don't want that either. I want a fresh start."

Will shows her compassion with his words. "We must leave today. We can get you out and part ways when we're far away."

Abigail nods slowly, her hands releasing their grip after being clenched. "That's what I want. I don't know, my Spanish isn't so bad; maybe I can go to Latin America."

They have a simple dinner, just a lomo saltado, and though it is tense, it is much less so than it would have been in another time and with another third participant.

Later, in the living room with Abigail in her bedroom, Will accompanies him, ignoring the armchair and sitting on the windowsill, minutes before midnight. Hannibal looks at him, satiating his need with his presence. "You don't object to what I told Abigail."

Will stretches his neck, a hint of resignation in his body. "Of course, I don't want you to threaten her, with everything you've already done to her, what you've put her through. But I also know that by choosing you and this path, I'll have to make sacrifices," his eyes sharpen as he continues, "but only the ones I'm willing to make, Hannibal. This will be a partnership of equals."

"It will be, Will," he assures, getting up from his seat to go to him, also leaning on the windowsill and looking at the sea, imagining the waves crashing against the distant rocks. "We are suspended here, by the Atlantic. You are with me, having chosen it that way, and I've chosen to let you do so freely, confessing my inner self."

"Do you ever think this could happen?"

He weighs the answer for just a few seconds. "Once. I believed it, but under different parameters, when I thought I could bend you, mold a version of you that I saw in your feverish madness, and later, when you appeared before me changed, showing me your capabilities. But those wouldn't have been the paths that would have led me to this moment, to having you. I had to understand my own ability to feel, and only then was I aware of how far away you were."

Will tilts his head, his eyes much clearer under the moon, cheerful. "I also thought once that we could be like this, but they were just idealistic dreams of who I thought you were. I spent so many bitter months, going through my memories of you, of who you pretended to be. But I came across the same man dressed as a beast when I started my own hunt because I knew the monster that hurt me so much was the same one who had offered me companionship before. And I thought it would be impossible because I would never be worth as much to you."

His hand trembles a bit as he lifts it to caress one of those cheeks, as he had done in so many repetitions. But this time, Will leans his head in, lowering his eyelids, moving his body to present what could almost be a hug. "I wasn't ready to have you and to have you have me. What I feel for you is still just as unbridled and obsessive, fueled by who I am, but it's pure, the purest thing I have to offer, which binds me and compels me to want to see you happy. To see you well for myself and by myself."

Will smiles, raising both hands to hold onto his shoulders, his features open due to his confessions. "A mutual pact to ignore the worst in each other to keep enjoying the best," he says with humor. "I know what you are, and I know who I am. I know you'll still be terrible, sometimes with me, but I know how much I need you, how much I would have broken if I had lost you tonight. I know that maybe I never want to kill or perhaps I will find my purpose, but above all, Hannibal, I understand that I love you, that I have loved you, and that I will probably continue to do so until our deaths."

Taking his mouth this time isn't difficult, something he has wanted to do for so, so long. The chasteness of his action, of just feeling him close, becomes passionate, succumbing to the taste of Will, to the strength with which he feels embraced, to the impetus with which he is reciprocated. They kiss and kiss, and it isn't until Will manages with some difficulty to stop the kiss that he looks at him with questions.

"Hannibal, wait," he says, licking those damned lips. "The time, fuck, the time."

Oh.

His watch reads 12:56 AM.

Will laughs, hugging him tightly. "I knew with how talkative we get with each other, time would slip away unnoticed."

It is so cliché what he thinks that he doesn't verbalize it, but it is as if a weight has been lifted from his chest, allowing him to breathe easily again, and with all his strength, he resumes devouring the mouth he loves so much, promising himself to wait with him for the arrival of a new dawn.

Notes:

And so, this story comes to an end! I hope you liked it. I wanted to write a fic with a time loop, but with Hannibal experiencing it because, in my opinion, he's the one who fucked up the relationship the most, hahaha. I have another story that goes along with this one, unrelated, with Will experiencing a moment of magical realism. It also has four chapters, and I hope to translate it soon!

Your kudos and comments are fabulous! You can now find me on Twitter as well in BattyMadison_.
I'm taking prompts for short fics :D

Notes:

Hello again! English may not be my first language, but I wanted to translate my stories ;)
Sorry for any errors!
I hope you like this fic; it is COMPLETE. I will be posting the other chapters frequently <3
Your kudos and comments are welcome!

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Mis traducciones to Englissshh